


Shadow

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magic, Manipulation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Physical Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:37:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8799397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Credence’s feet still at once, his whole body turning in involuntary answer to his name; and there he is, as composed and calm as he always looks, as if he’s only just emerged into the winter-chill winds of the city." Credence is a master of craving what he shouldn't.





	

Today was a bad day.

Credence feels it in the eyes of strangers on the street, in the stares so vicious with judgment he can almost hear the whisper of their thoughts inside his mind, can almost pick apart the hissing bite of rejection from the sound of footsteps against the pavement and the rustle of the flyers in his cold fingers. He hands out some of them, watches the majority drop to the snow-crusted sidewalk a few feet away, until finally his hands are empty and all around him is a spray of ruined flyers stuck to the ground as if he’s the epicenter of some bizarre explosion. But his hands are empty at last, his work complete enough to placate his mother’s ceaseless demands, and so he turns to make his way back towards the ill-fitting doors that mark out the front of the building that serves as a home. He walks slow, his footsteps dragging unwillingly towards his end location as much from expectation as dread, and he’s not quite halfway when there’s a voice, “Credence” framing his name into something solid and steady against a practiced tongue. Credence’s feet still at once, his whole body turning in involuntary answer to his name; and there he is, as composed and calm as he always looks, as if he’s only just emerged into the winter-chill winds of the city.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence says, his voice breaking ragged on relief, and he stumbles forward without being told, his feet carrying him closer without waiting for any intention from his thoughts. Mr. Graves looks over his shoulder, scanning the street like he’s checking for an audience, but Credence doesn’t look back; Mr. Graves can hide them if he has to, he knows, he can sweep aside the memory of the Barebones boy speaking with a stranger from the mind of anyone who cares enough to glance their way. He reaches out as soon as Credence is within range, his fingers closing hard against the narrow width of the other’s arm, and when he pulls it’s with enough force that Credence stumbles and nearly loses his footing on the icy ground. He thinks he’s going to fall for a moment, is lifting a hand in reflexive attempt to save himself from impact; but Mr. Graves is gripping at the front of his shirt with his other hand, pulling Credence back to upright without hesitation, and the only impact that runs through Credence’s body is as his shoulder runs up against the alley wall where Mr. Graves pushes him.

“Be careful,” Mr. Graves tells him, his voice rough over the edges of the whisper he’s granting to the words. It makes him sound gentle, concerned, like he’s worried for Credence’s safety. His hold at the other’s shirt eases, his hand slides up over Credence’s shoulder instead. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, now would we.”

Credence shakes his head in helpless agreement while he struggles for words. “No sir.”

“Right.” Mr. Graves lifts his head, turning the dark focus of his gaze onto Credence’s face instead of the rough slick of the pavement under them. “Now. What do you have for me?”

“Ah.” Credence closes his mouth, swallows convulsively in an attempt to steady the thoughts sent whirling by the weight of Mr. Graves’s hand at his shoulder, by the dark of the other’s eyes in the dim-lit alley, by the low drag of that voice at his ear. It’s always hard to think like this, hard to find the coherency Mr. Graves demands of him; Credence feels the twist of shame low in his stomach, sometimes, that all he has to offer to Mr. Graves’s clean-cut composure is the babble of words that feel as empty on his tongue as all the rest of Credence’s life does, as if his whole existence has turned to a hollow shell in comparison with the absolute presence that Mr. Graves exudes. His throat is closing up on itself, his hands are starting to shake, his shoulders want to tip in; and Mr. Graves slides his hand farther up Credence’s collar, touches the weight of his forefinger and the brace of his thumb to Credence’s skin, and Credence shudders an exhale violent enough to take all his stress with it.

“She talks to a lot of people,” he manages, the words slipping from him like they’re being urged loose of his tongue by the weight of Mr. Graves’s touch. “No one listens, though. There’s only the children who ever pay any attention to what she’s saying.”

“Children,” Mr. Graves repeats. His hand shifts, his thumb drags over Credence’s neck. “It’s a child I’m looking for. Tell me about them.”

“They come for the food,” Credence says. His knees are shaking until he can’t trust his weight to them; he’s clinging to Mr. Graves’s shoulder, his grip rumpling the smooth lines of the other’s coat, but Mr. Graves doesn’t protest the contact. Credence doesn’t think he could let himself let go anyway. “They’re hungry. Some of them live on the streets, I think. She gives them food and flyers to hand out on street corners.”

“The ones about the witch menace?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence nods jerkily. His heart is racing so hard he thinks he might pass out. “Yes. There’s...there’s so many of them, Mr. Graves, I don’t see how--”

“It’s okay,” Mr. Graves tells him, his hand sliding higher up Credence’s neck. “I’ll tell you how to do it.” Credence can feel himself shaking, can feel his mouth opening on the choking strain of panic that he has to fight to breathe past; the hand at his neck shifts higher, pressing against the edge of his jaw and sliding up into his hair. “Ssh, Credence, it’s okay.” Mr. Graves takes a step in, the shift of his body urging Credence backwards, and Credence stumbles and falls heavily against the wall behind him, the brick at his shoulders taking his weight as Mr. Graves leans in over him. From the main street Credence thinks no one would be able to see him at all, caught as he is between the shadows of the alley walls and the span of Mr. Graves’s shoulders tipping in over him. “Breathe.”

Credence can feel his fingers bearing down on Mr. Graves’s coat, can feel the heavy weight of the wool crushing under his grip. Distantly, somewhere in the back of his mind, he cringes away from the force he’s using, from the damage he might be causing to the other’s clothes. “Mr. Graves--”

“It’s okay,” Mr. Graves says again. His mouth is inches from Credence’s ear; when he turns his head in Credence can feel the heat of the other’s breathing spilling over his skin. “It’s okay, Credence, I can help you, don’t forget that.” His grip on the other’s shoulder loosens, his hand comes up to weight at the other side of Credence’s neck; Credence is caught between his palms, braced as still as if Mr. Graves is pinning him back to the wall instead of steadying him to upright. “You’re going to help me get the information I need and I’m going to make you a wizard, Credence, you’ll be a _great_ wizard.”

“Ah,” Credence gasps. He can smell something spicy clinging to the weight of Mr. Graves’s jacket, like a suggestion of cinnamon or a trace of peppermint. His fingers loosen, flex convulsively again. “Great like you?”

Mr. Graves laughs warm against his ear. “Greater,” he says, and his palms press flush to Credence’s neck, the weight of his touch tingling warm down the whole of Credence’s spine. Credence shudders with the force, with the heat uncurling into his veins and prickling near-pain against his wind-chilled fingers, but Mr. Graves doesn’t loosen his hold, and Credence doesn’t want to pull away from the warmth of the hands against him any more than he wants to step aside from the golden-hazed promises Mr. Graves is murmuring against his ear. “I’ll bring you into the wizarding world, Credence. You’ll be with others like us, you’ll learn how to master the power at your fingertips even now.” Each of his words is running through Credence like it has physical weight and presence; there’s a knot low in his stomach, a tension Credence recognizes even as it aches along his spine and into his hips. “I’ll help you, Credence, I’ll tell you what to do to get me the information I need to deal with this threat, and then you’ll be free, you can come into the wizarding world as a hero.” He’s talking faster, Credence realizes distantly; Mr. Graves’s words are coming almost atop each other, now, it’s hard to follow them for how dizzy his thoughts have become. The hands at his neck are radiant with heat, now, Credence is sure they must be warm enough to burn the delicate skin under them; but he’s not burning, he’s glowing, he can feel the friction of Mr. Graves’s touch unwinding into all the veins in his body as if to light them up individually. He’s breathing harder, he thinks, he can hear the gasp of air forcing past his lips with every inhale he takes, but the chill of the wind melts on contact with his throat, it’s as warm as all the rest of him by the time it fills the strain of his lungs in his chest.

Mr. Graves’s fingers shift, his palm drags fractionally across Credence’s skin. “You want to help me, don’t you, Credence?” His head turns, his lips touch Credence’s ear; Credence can feel the electricity of the contact spark all down his spine, can feel his knees shudder and threaten to give way at the damp heat of Mr. Graves’s mouth against his skin. “You want to be free, don’t you?” Mr. Graves’s hand slides up, catching against Credence’s jaw in a perfect match for his first contact; Credence imagines he can feel his blood catching alight between those two points, imagines he can feel the heat turning over on itself to cascade through the tremor of his body as his head tips back reflexively, as his lips part on a sound that goes unvoiced but for the shape of the expression on his face.

“I’ll take care of you,” Mr. Graves says, and Credence can feel the words strain through the whole of his body, can feel his spine arching as if the sound of that voice is crackling under his skin and curving him into a helpless arc of strain. His heart is pounding, his blood rushing through his veins; he can’t think, he can hardly move, he feels like he’s standing on a precipice crumbling out from beneath him and just waiting to fall. Mr. Graves’s fingers tighten against him, pressing almost to the point of pain, and then: “ _Credence_ ,” he says, his voice turning the other’s name into honeyed sweetness, and Credence jerks, his throat straining on a silent whimper as his body convulses into pleasure. His fingers seize at Mr. Graves’s coat, his legs tremble underneath him, and still Mr. Graves keeps his hold on him, his fingers sparking with heat that Credence can feel like contact trailing over every inch of his body at once. There’s a moment of all-over sensation, a breath where even the weight of Credence’s clothes against his skin is too much; and then the strength fades out of him, the tension eases at once to slack heat, and he collapses, the support of his legs giving way to send him toppling forward against Mr. Graves’s shoulder. The other catches him without hesitation, one arm dropping around Credence’s shoulders and the other falling to catch against his waist, and for a moment Credence doesn’t try to make sense of his existence, doesn’t try to think, doesn’t do anything but gasp for breath against the heavy front of the other’s coat.

“You’re fine,” Mr. Graves tells him, murmuring the words against Credence’s hair so the sound ruffles against the strands. The hand around Credence’s shoulders is shifting, the fingers pressing to his shirt sliding to stroke comfort against him; Mr. Graves lets his waist go and slides his hand down over the front of Credence’s pants. Credence tenses at the contact, as much from self-consciousness as from the friction against over-sensitive skin; but Mr. Graves just murmurs something against his hair, voicing the shape of a spell Credence can’t quite make out, and the damp soaking through the dark fabric evaporates like it was never there.

“There,” Mr. Graves says, replacing his hold at Credence’s hip and tightening his arm around the other’s shoulders. “That’ll keep you tidy enough. Don’t want you to take a beating on my account.”

Credence exhales against Mr. Graves’s coat, his fingers twisting hard against the other’s lapel. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, not sure what he’s apologizing for, unable to be more clear in any case.

Mr. Graves sighs. “Credence,” he says, voice dipping down to faintly chastising as he draws his arm back to brace his fingers at the other’s shoulder. Credence doesn’t have a chance to hold himself where he is before Mr. Graves is pushing him back against the alley, holding him in place while the other looks into his eyes. Mr. Graves’s eyes are soft, his mouth almost curving on a smile; Credence can feel the warmth of reassurance like sunshine against his chill skin. “You don’t need to apologize.” His hand at Credence’s shoulder tightens, some of the soft in his eyes hardens into steady focus. “Just get me what I need.”

Credence ducks his head into the surrender of a nod. “And then you’ll help me?”

“Yes,” Mr. Graves says, his gaze steady, his hold firm, his voice level. Credence has never heard anyone else sound so sure of themselves. “I’ll help you.”

Credence gusts an exhale, the sound strange and strained until it comes out nearly as a sob, his head falling forward so he can hide his face. The hand at his shoulder tightens, just for a moment; and then Mr. Graves pulls him in closer, catching Credence in the curve of his arms and pulling the other’s head in against his shoulder. Credence’s arms are caught between them, he can’t free his hands enough to even attempt to return the gesture; but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even think of retreat, just lets Mr. Graves press him against the soft wool of the other’s coat.

Seen from a distance, they both disappear into a single shadow.


End file.
